


(Summer Song)

by moochymochi



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beaches, Bottom Patrick, Creeper Peter, Lifeguards, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Stalking, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-11-19 01:56:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moochymochi/pseuds/moochymochi
Summary: Patrick is a lifeguard who saves Pete from drowning. Pete doesn't know how to handle it, which only adds to what he's already dealing with. It may be hot outside, but inside it's too dark for the both of them.Beach City AU. Mature in later chapters. Lifeguard!Patrick and Stalker!Pete.





	1. Chapter 1

A cheesesteak with extra peppers and a side of onion rings wasn’t an ideal lunch. Well, not if the hours following included being glued to a guard tower during Hermosa Beach’s summer.

Patrick rubbed his stomach. With his fingers passing over the waistband of his swim trunks, he belched and scrunched further into his seat. The wood sighed at the adjustment. As a second, gurgling belch passed his lips, he blushed. The area surrounding his guard tower was empty.

The time on his watch read a quarter to seven in the evening. He was so ready to go. An hour and fifteen minutes. He scratched at his wrist, where the watch’s velcro strap was the tightest, and continued watching the ocean. Back and forth, scanning, up and down, scanning. During his initial training, his instructor had said to him, and a group of five other young men, that the lifeguard’s scan was similar to eating out a chick. Back and forth, up and down, your face exhausted from trying to keep the peace. That had been an annoying chuckle to fake. Really, how could that be considered appropriate? He scoffed at the memory. Aside from a mother and son splashing in the shallows, his section of the beach was worry-free. Come on, come on, time had to be going slow on purpose.

Patrick didn’t mind his job. Lifeguarding brought in fairly good money and was transparent enough beyond the weekly physical training. It was just that he actually had plans tonight! He wanted to get out of here. Carmen and her friend Miles - he was so hot - had invited him to pizza and beer. They were supposed to meet at nine and hang out in the bed of Carmen’s truck in the school parking lot. He had even brought a couple of bucks to pitch in for the meal. He knew the truck’s bed would be snug and the food would be tasty and the night would be long, full of talk. The anticipation had him distracted from the cheesesteak stomach pains. 

Squinting, he fixed on something out in the ocean. It was about a third of a mile from the shoreline. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, almost like it had been shoved into his line of sight, literally, out of the blue. 

Was that a person? Two people? More waves, the ocean seeming to perform for the attention. It was, uhm.. It was a guy and a surfboard. Except, except.. Sweet fuck, the board was pressing him into the water! It was, wasn’t it!? In front of his section of the beach! He was the lifeguard, he had to take care of this! Oh, God. 

The stomach pains revamped ten times over. 

Patrick bounced to an upright position, heart threatening to splinter his sternum with how the rhythm struck. He did a final, daunting assessment of the situation, and, yeah, that guy was drowning, before blowing his whistle. The piece of plastic shrieked, warning the few remaining beachgoers to _move_. 

He hit the ground at a half-sprint. It wasn’t until he had shed his sunglasses and hat, a rescue surfboard in his grip, that he began to run at full tilt. He blew his whistle again when he entered the water. He paddled.

Patrick’s arms were the strongest part of his body. Nothing to brag about, simply in better shape than his abdominals. This made paddling out to the victim, with ten thousand different scenarios from training on his mind, easy enough. The saltwater flanked him from each side, the splashes from his paddling creating a heavier impact the closer he came. When he was a meter away, he slipped into the ocean. His left hand held the board while his right extended to assist. A certain distance must be kept prior to making contact, otherwise he may be pulled under, as well. The truest nightmare for lifeguards. A wave passed over them, their situation jostled until it had subsided.

“Grab on, I’m here to help!” Patrick hollered, his voice close to cracking. Had that sounded the way it was supposed to? It’s what he had been informed would reassure both parties. And nope, he was nervous. This was happening fast, and he didn’t want either of them getting hurt. The expression on the victim’s face was terrified, his mouth moving without a word being said. He wasn’t reacting, which meant Patrick had to keep trying, forcing his arm further out, “Grab on!”

More waves, and they both dropped beneath them. They were lurched by swells until the direction of the surface was lost. Disorientation was a tough fight if you had to hold your breath. Patrick opened his eyes in the water, and saw the victim open his mouth. No, no, don’t do that! If his lungs began to fill, he would aspirate in seconds. He swam forward. 

When he broke them past the surface, Patrick swears there was a smile before whoever he had saved collapsed to a state of unconsciousness. 

\---

Pete listened to what he was being told. A man wearing cherry red swim trunks a tank top with ‘HERMOSA BEACH GUARD’ printed in the center was speaking to him. His wrinkled forehead and sunburnt neck distracted him, and all he could accomplish were nods at what he assumed were the correct intervals. He swallowed. Regret crossed his face upon tasting salt in his throat. 

“The ocean deserves respect, don’t go past the buoys,” the man continued. “You should be grateful Trick was there. Maybe next time he won’t be. Don’t let there be a next time!”

“.. Trick?” Pete echoed. He moved to readjust himself in the shitty plastic chair he had been stuck in. He was cut short, the man holding him steady by the shoulder.

“Sit, you’re not ready to go anywhere yet. You passed out and we gave you some oxygen when you were pulled ashore. I’ve got to go report this to the county before they shut down for the night. Trick’s gonna fill out the paperwork for me,” the man stated. He stood, his head nearly touching the ceiling of the guard station. He murmured to someone behind him and began to climb the ladder leading to the sand.

Patrick raised his eyebrows in pity, a clipboard and pen in hand. He was wearing the same swim trunks and tank top. Although clearly not the same wrinkles and sunburn. Instead, soft features and dirty blonde hair nearing his shoulders. The pen clicked and was pressed to the clipboard.

“Full name?”

“I, it’s… Peter. Wentz.”

“How do you spell that?”

“My last name?”

Patrick held his tongue. Like the average person had trouble spelling ‘Peter’. He had to remember, this guy had been through a traumatic experience. Plus, he didn’t appear too bright to begin with. There was that ‘god-complex-skater-kid’ vibe coming from him. He remained polite, “Yes.”

“W-E-N-T-Z.”

“Great, what’s your date of birth?”

“Your name’s Trick?” Pete replied with rather than answering the question. “Short for Patrick, yeah? Which do you prefer?”

Confused and irritated that he was going to be late to see his friends, Patrick said, “Just Patrick is good.”

“Thank you for saving me, Patrick.”

“Hey, no problem. It’s part of the job and all that.”

Pete smiled, and Patrick recognized it from when they had been out in the water. It was a genuine smile. The way it sat on his lips, sharp and swollen, didn’t give him the warmest fuzzies in the world. But, ah, right, traumatic experience. Nevertheless. The smile received no response. In fact, he found himself looking away. 

Patrick managed to get this guy’s date of birth, home address, phone number, medical history, and account of the incident. Apparently, Peter worked at the longboard outlet on Golden Street, and had the confidence that if you can longboard, you can surf! Geez, Patrick knew he was a skater kid. Fit the stereotype of being an idiot, too. Seriously. He was glad that he had been able to perform his duties, and now he wanted to leave. Yet this guy kept talking. The late hour was made evident by the sunbeams’ fading dance on the walls, the idea of wrecking tonight’s plans bordering on reality. Relief came when the man from earlier reentered the guard station. He hustled to the door, chirping, “Welp, I’m out! See you later.”

Pete blatantly stared at him making an exit. Why was he hurrying? He could hear his footsteps on the sand. Something was being said to him, and he ignored every word. His ears perked with the footsteps. He was able to shake the man and his encouragement to seek medical attention if he felt lightheaded this coming week.

Of course he was feeling lightheaded.

\---

Changed into his street clothes and in the driver’s seat of his 1995 Celica, Patrick was at Carmen’s place in a matter of minutes. A text had been sent while stuck at the freeway’s onramp to ensure he wouldn’t be forgotten. Cell phone pinging with playful messages about how he was a ditcher and the Celica’s tailpipe sputtering with fatigue from the abused gas pedal, he made it. 

The night was spent doing everything he had been mentally planning the entire day; plenty of pizza, underaged drinking, flirting with Miles, and, empty beer below his feet with a smudged city sky above, he was at ease. It was the night he needed. He told his friends the story of today’s rescue, omitting the pieces about Peter questioning his name and thanking him. The interaction had been odd to him. There was no desire to retell it. His friends gave their congratulations without a second thought, the laughter from Patrick shy, satisfied. 

It was mid-June, Patrick on summer break from his senior year with no plans for a higher education. The next day involved work. In the locker room, sunscreen was slathered onto his skin, mostly to his face due to its sensitivity. The cherry red cap he wore for his uniform wasn’t adequate protection. The only thing it was good for was ruffling his hair beyond recognition. 

Patrick relieved the current guard in his usual section and was soon seated and scanning. The familiarity of the beach dotted with blobs of flesh squeezed into swimsuits stirred a yawn. With nothing to keep his mind from wandering, yesterday’s incident crept to the forefront. 

Peter wasn’t hideous or anything, tanned muscles were always a plus, it was way he had acted. People who were saved from the waves were emotional and often physically shaking. It was expected. Peter had been calm and interruptive. Had he been saved before? Was he in a kind of weird shock? Their time in the guard station was replayed. 

Patrick frowned. He snapped his whistle at some preteens throwing one another into the water, and held the plastic in place through previous indentations. His teeth bit down hard. God, he hoped this guy wasn’t in pain or whatever. He didn’t need a claim that he had caused suffering in the rescue.

Behind the guard station, Pete confirmed that it was indeed Patrick via the hair sticking from the bottom of his cap and the sound of his voice when he shouted at those who misbehaved. Perfect, he was working today. He gave him discreet glance and moved to a spot at the back of the beach’s parking lot. He sat on the curb, arms folded. His morning shift at the outlet had already been documented as a sick day. He was going to be here.

The cars were sparsely placed. It was Sunday morning and not quite time for the weekend crowds. Still, there was life on the asphalt. From minivans that were unloaded with the cargo of children by parents to jeeps rolling in with college students already tossing a volleyball around, Pete took it all in. But it was the unattended cars he needed to monitor. The ones awaiting their owners.

He had to see which was Patrick’s.


	2. Chapter 2

On the front lawn, Patrick sat with his back against the hideous fountain installed by his parents in an attempt to brighten the yard without planting anything. It was like a pink, blistering thumb poking out from the grass. Still, it provided shade and the sound of running water. Soothing enough. 

“Here, c’mere,” he murmured with a chunk of kiwi in hand. He waved it around, his eyes focused on the rabbit padding toward him. He picked her up and nudged her into his lap where she set to work on the kiwi. “You’re my sweet girl.”

The rabbit, Poppy, was chubby, a long-eared breed with speckled fur that had been a birthday gift from Patrick’s parents. He had asked for a hamster, and cried when presented with Poppy. Typically, she stayed in a cage in his room or wandered around the house with supervision. His parents disapproved of playing with her out in the front yard, but it was only done in the cool mornings with Patrick never allowing her to move past the half-circle he created with his spread legs. Plus, a plate of cut fruit helped her from straying. 

Poppy began to nibble his fingers to ask for more, and he chuckled. He scratched the top of her head, reaching for another chunk of kiwi and drawing his knees in to create further shade for his lap. 

Pete breathed out when he saw Patrick’s positive expression. He looked.. Approachable. 

Learning where Patrick lived had taken time. The first day of searching from his perch on the curb, he found the car he drove, license plate and all. The second day he had waited in the beach’s parking lot in his own car to follow Patrick home, which, due to the insanity of the freeways, resulted in him unable to gather anything past the exit he took. The third day, he had made it to Patrick’s neighborhood, memorized the address of the house, and drove off before he appeared to linger in the cul-de-sac. The fourth day, he had driven to the house after night fell, and hung around until a light went on in the center window - a desk, dresser, the outline of what had to be Patrick shifting to close the blinds in his view. And today, he was here again. 1351 East Granton Circle. The house with the fountain and the brick walkway and the beautiful boy.

Pete, with his nose resting on the window’s edge of his Pontiac Firebird, saw Patrick look in his direction. He slid into the seat, his tank top smushed upward with his spine sticking to the leather. One of his knees hit the gas pedal and he swore. He was uncomfortable, and hoped this would end soon. Especially with the sun moving higher in the sky, his parking spot across the street failing to provide coverage. It was Wednesday, Patrick’s parents already off to work. He needed Patrick to leave for work, too. 

A minute later, he peered out again and watched the final piece of kiwi feed to the rabbit. Patrick was wiping his hand on the grass and then was gathering both the plate and rabbit. They headed inside. The fingers of Pete’s left hand flexed. They were sweating, and he worried that he would stain the paper he was holding. It was folded into a neat rectangle with ‘Patrick’ written in ink along the top. 

At last, Pete’s ears perked to the sound of the Celica’s engine and buzz on its way out of the cul-de-sac. He grinned to himself and unlocked the car. He hopped out, the sweat now present from his scalp to the soles of his feet. 

With a check for any neighbors, he trotted to that center window. It was summer, so of course it was shut tight, and he bounced on his heels for a moment. He needed it open by an inch. Not a big deal. With the paper in one hand, he dove into the back pocket of his jeans with the other, the snug fabric holding his pocket knife in place. He pulled it out, and the blade was exposed in a _snap!_ Quick, quick, he knew from experience that this was supposed to be quick. He worked it between the window’s crack, its longer length granting him passage to the lock on the opposite side. He jabbed around until he had the lock hooked, and pushed. The window was pried opened. 

Pete nudged the paper through. It fell straight to the floor, damn, he had wanted there to be a chair or something to catch it. At least it fell with the name facing up. He closed the window.

_‘If dreams were the only way to you, I’d sleep a thousand years,  
And if you were to lay beside me, I’d sleep a thousand more._

_Through the eves of summer, you grow in my thoughts,  
A garden pulling the heavens to the waiting shore._

_Blood cells pixelate, and eyes dilate,  
Kiss away young thrills and kills ‘til I’m sore.’_

That evening, Patrick noticed the paper when he was climbing into bed. He sat there on the edge, feet dangling and forehead creasing for each word he read. 

.. The fuck?

\---

Patrick wasn’t particularly fond of milk tea, however, he was quite fond of Miles. So he had agreed to hang out with him. Warily sipping around the boba in his drink, he agreed with Miles’ political point, eyelashes batting a bit. Those freckles were gorgeous.

Almost a week had gone by since he found the note - poem? thing? - in his room. Once the surprise wore off, he had disregarded it to be a random joke from a friend. It was tossed into his desk drawer when a Google search of the lines brought no results. All right, whatever, it had been written for him. He wouldn’t give the person who had done it the satisfaction of bothering him by discussing it with anyone. He didn’t want to think about it. Those lines were intense. And sort of romantic. 

It was nearing the later half of the afternoon, Miles having to leave to get ready for his shift at the Hilton. He had a bartending gig there that Patrick thought was totally cool and mature. He told him that, in less desperate way, and they made loose plans for the weekend. 

The little drink joint was winding down, its closing time a half hour away, and Patrick decided it was time to go. He fumbled through the satchel he used when he went out, and scowled when he saw his keys entwined with his headphones. He didn’t see Pete walking in his direction, not until he lay a hand on the table. His surprise and uncertainty weren’t hidden, “Hey?”

“Hey there. It’s Trick, isn’t it?”

“Patrick. My friends call me Trick.”

Ooh, cold. Pete sat in the chair diagonal from him. He gave him space, although his eyes were dragging over the places they shouldn’t. He noted, “I already know you remember me, we’ll skip that part.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Was that guy your man?”

“Uhm, what?”

“That guy. He was sitting with you. Is he yours?”

Patrick was blinking at him now, trying to understand why he was here and interrogating him about Miles. He rubbed the side of his head, hesitating, “He’s not ‘mine’.”

“Perfect. You’re into men?”

Patrick was shoving his still-tangled headphones and keys away, snapping the satchel without looking at Pete. He wasn’t sticking around for this. He turned, and the hand that had been on the table gripped his forearm. 

“Patrick,” Pete said, not releasing his grip until he felt a strain, “sorry for being blunt. I’m not great at conversation.”

“No shit. Don’t touch m--”

“It’s just that lately, you’ve been growing in my thoughts.”

Together, they leaned toward the other person. It couldn’t be stopped. Patrick to reassure himself that he wasn’t tripping out, Pete to feign sheepishness. It was two shaky breaths before there were any words.

Pete’s voice was delicate, “You know what I mean?”

“You, I, you’re the one who wrote that note?”

“It was a poem. Or a song.”

“But..”

“Did you like it?”

Stepping back so fast he stumbled over the loose laces of his Vans, Patrick caught himself and steadied his nerve to ask, “How did you get that into my room?”

Pete was ready. The lie had been practiced in the mirror this morning. And the morning before that, too, “One of your friends helped me out. I won’t say who, they’re my little helper with this. I’m not sure when they dropped it off, exactly.”

“And how would you know any of my friends?”

“Oh, come on. I went to Palo Verde. Class of 2012.”

Patrick’s ass, which had been hovering above his chair in suspicion, rested. This guy had gone to Palo Verde? And was friends with one of his friends?

Internally, Pete was elated. It was a good thing he had called the local high schools to ask in what boundaries would 1351 East Granton Circle fall. But he could detect that his company remained on edge, and he shifted the conversation, “Anyway, did you like what I wrote?”

“It was,” Patrick fumbled for an adjective, “nice. Why didn’t you talk to me or something?”

“I told you, I’m not great at conversation.”

Patrick had no response. This had never happened to him. He felt a reluctant curiosity as he peered over at Peter. In a flash, he remembered how he had considered the words on the paper to be romantic. He blushed and supposed that held true.

“If I took you on a date, where would you want to go?” Pete was rapping his knuckles on the table. He paused. 

“I don’t know if we should go on a date.”

“How about,” Pete started, one hand grazing the space of Patrick’s neck and ear with the intent to touch that lovely mess of blond, “I tell you that we’re going for dinner and a drive along the coast this weekend?”

Nostrils broadening at the motor oily, minty scent of Pete’s hand, Patrick was quiet. He felt his personal bubble reinflate, and then, he agreed. They exchanged contact information.

“Saturday at seven works for me,” Pete stated, assuming it also worked for his date. He scooted from his chair and ducked under the table. He was tying the laces from the earlier stumble. 

“It’s fine, Peter,” Patrick attempted to protest. He was met with the knot being tightened further, and it was over. His ankles were crossed and tucked.

“Nah, it’s Pete. My friends call me Pete.”

\---

Pete’s Firebird was pretty neat. It was shiny and roared louder than a lion with hemorrhoids when the gas pedal was pressed too hard. Patrick was smiling whenever they ignored the posted speed limits, and he laughed at the middle finger Pete threw at an off-duty cop. It was fun.

Dinner wasn’t terrible, either. The get-to-know-you part was cute; Pete’s listening face was genuine and Patrick permitted his knee to be caressed. They split a spread of sushi, the restaurant near the end of the main tourist section of the beaches. Pete paid, and Patrick thanked him. They drove away from the city.

For Pete, it was a pleasant date. The best. All he needed to remember was to forget the information he had gathered about Patrick through social media, and act surprised when he heard it. 

“Have you been here?” Pete’s hands were firm on the steering wheel, maneuvering the Firebird onto the corner of a lookout on the side of the road. “It’s a fine place to talk.”

Patrick shook his head, partially serious, “Wow, do I seem that easy to you?”

“No. It really is a fine place to talk.”

The engine was switched off, Patrick’s seatbelt undone. He watched the other, the headlights off and causing him to squint. 

“Here’s my thing, I’m not a very sexual person. I’m asexual, if you want to put a label on it,” Pete told him. He followed suit in undoing his seatbelt.

“Oh?” Patrick didn’t have a clue what he should say. Though, he wasn’t able to dwell on it for long. Both hands were grabbed and he was heaved forward. He gave an involuntary yelp, his stomach jabbed against the emergency brake.

Pete sighed, “And with you - it’s all there. I feel normal. When I saw you coming to save me, I knew you would. I trusted you. You’re so deserving of that trust and I don’t want to give it to anyone else.”

Patrick’s mind worked in overdrive to process what he was hearing. It frightened him, and the emergency brake continued to pain him. Pete was able to kiss him for a full three seconds until Patrick’s teeth tore the flesh on the left side of his mouth. It was a small wound, shredded and bruised for weeks.


	3. Chapter 3

“I can’t take these,” Patrick was arguing halfheartedly. He shook his head for emphasis, though the action seemed to cause another step forward by Pete, “You shouldn’t have.”

“I got them for you to say sorry, I want you to have them. Look, there’s a card that has your name on it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re sorry.”

Patrick wanted to go inside. An ambush in his driveway wasn’t what he needed this morning. The shock of it distracted him from what he would assume to be a dedicated wait by Pete. He wavered. The contrast between the side of Pete’s mouth and the bouquet of tulips he held was strange; indentations from the bite glowed like irritated, ripe plums in the sun, and the blooms were a cheerful yellow, stems wrapped at the bottom. Lovely. One of those two things was indeed, or, he supposed it could be both.

That night, less than a week ago, had been too much for him. The abrupt aggression in the Firebird had unnerved him to the point of using his fight or flight instinct. He had fought with his teeth against any flesh he could find, and had fled with his voice that hissed to end their date. The blood he had drawn lingered with its bitter flavor when he called Miles to cancel their plans. 

Pete insisted, “Please. I’m sorry. I want to fix what I did.”

Slowly, Patrick took the tulips into his arms. He dodged the hand making a pass to touch his shoulder. 

Pete folded his hands behind his head, the loose trucker hat he wore pushed up from the movement. His gift had been accepted, perfect, he was doing well. He continued, “Seriously, all of that was my bad. And I.. hope you like the flowers. Can I take you out again? You’re so pretty, I have to ask.”

Pretty? Patrick didn’t expect to react positively to the rather feminine compliment, yet he let out a laugh. Receiving flowers was a new experience for him, too, and he liked it. He couldn’t say for certain if he felt the same about Pete. Well. Those sideswept bangs and stubble were helping. He wished the concrete under his feet was more solid, he wasn’t thinking straight.

“I’ll go out with you,” Patrick said, peeking at his house. His father had appeared at the dining room window, partially blocked by the row of ferns. It hurried him along, “It has to be a double date, okay? It has to be with my friends.”

“I can do that. When?”

“This weekend, probably at night.”

“Great!”

“I’ll text you-- No, no, I’m not hugging you. Bye!”

Patrick turned to jog to his front door, already thinking of an excuse to please his father. A bouquet from an older man standing on the driveway was going to be tough. And unfortunately, working to reason with himself was a challenge that he wasn’t aware of. He didn’t feel the need to acknowledge that there was an issue. Not with this, romantic, he supposed, gesture dancing in his thoughts. Their first date had been misguided, and he was giving Pete a chance to correct it. He was being nice.

\---

To start, their double date wasn’t going as planned. Carmen’s truck was being used by her older brother, meaning they couldn’t all pile into its bed the way they had planned. Instead, Carmen and her boyfriend took his Mazda 3, Pete and Patrick in the Firebird. The superhero movie they had picked out at the drive-in was sold out, with a summer slasher flick involving a haunted lakehouse being the single other option. Separate cars. Creepy movie.

Patrick was less than thrilled. He hadn’t told Carmen much about his reasoning for preferring a double date, and he gave an awkward chuckle at the ‘A-OK’ sign she flashed him from one parking space over. He glanced at the screen. The movie was wading through its previews, his date off buying a pair of Icees. 

“I got you the blue flavor,” Pete said, re-entering the car from the driver’s side. He handed him a cup that was three times the size of his hand. “I thought you’d look cute with a blue tongue.”

Patrick frowned, “Thanks. But don’t expect this blue tongue to paint yours.”

“It’s cool. I expect to get blue balls on my own.”

They smiled. The movie began around ten minutes later, the Sunday night crowd noisy while the opening scene was a montage of the town’s main street and cast’s names. 

Patrick allowed his hand to be held, the stupid premise of the movie capturing his attention. He suspected Pete’s attention was held, too, since he was silent and unmoving. He gasped at a spooky glimpse of the ghost’s face from beneath a couch. His hand flexed, the following scene occurring in a kitchen where the characters scrambled for candles. The lack of light on the screen, in turn, obscured the viewing area. They were in the dark. He felt their hands disconnect and heard his seatbelt buckle clicking.

Shit. He knew what was happening. That was his own seatbelt buckle clicking. Nothing was done to stop it. He wanted to trust he _could_ stop it if he wanted. 

“Relax,” Pete whispered. He continued to watch the film, the button and zipper the next victim to fall to his fingers. The shuffle of his hand accessing Patrick’s cock through his briefs was lost in the screeching soundtrack from the car speaker. A pause was taken to draw his hand to his mouth for a lick, returning warmer and wetter to its work. 

Initially, for Patrick, it was good. Then Pete dipped his head down, and it was _fantastic_. He actually covered his mouth with both hands to hide a whimper. He prayed that if anyone noticed him, he passed for someone who wasn’t a fan of horror movies. 

Pete had never given a blow job - he was glad Patrick was his first. It was easier than he had fantasized. Through what he guessed he would personally enjoy when there was a mouth on his dick, and tips from an online Cosmo article he had read yesterday, he focused. Lips were parted over the full length, one thumb smoothing over the patch of fuzz under his sack. The fuzz was supple, curly, and, if they were in a brighter place, he imagined it was the same color as Patrick’s hair. He remembered the little trail of fuzz leading to his bellybutton, needed to kiss it, and popped up from his cock to do so. The hand he had originally licked went to grip where his mouth had left off.

Patrick exhaled, having realized that the older boy was free to talk, “You’re making it hard to watch the movie.”

Pete shrugged and he slid his mouth onto the tip of the cock, gulping it in with more solid suction than the first time. Those eyes could be sensed on him, and he reached for the hand Patrick had beside him. He lay it on the top of his head, ensuring he had a grip on his hat. It was a mellow pressure, enough to encourage him. He waited until Patrick increased the pressure on his own, creating a rhythm for the bobbing of his head. 

“Hang on,” Patrick was saying before the darkened scene was over, his hand no longer helping Pete. Why he called for them to ‘Hang on’, he could exactly say. It was a mix of the confusion for what this intimacy meant, and the embarrassment from the threat of release. Eyes shut, his moans were hidden among the shrieks of the film’s protagonist. He ached with pleasure and there were dribbles of cum on his briefs due to vertical position of his cock. Pete’s throat had caught most of it, though.

“How was it?” Pete asked eagerly. He was slumped in the driver’s seat, washing back that protein shot with his Icee. 

Patrick was quiet. He had no idea what to say.

\---

Pete was happy to spring into the nearest liquor store for the group. The movie had ended, and a group of teenagers presented with a choice involving alcohol for their second activity of the night was a no-brainer. He had Patrick stay with the others while he drove off, several paper bags of beverages in his arms when he reparked his Firebird at the back lot of the drive-in. His expression read ‘Dig in!’ and he kept a hard limeade drink for himself, the bags tucked within his open trunk. They chatted and kept alert for any law enforcement.

“Ey, you should drink more,” Carmen encouraged, pinching at Patrick’s shoulder. She laughed upon receiving an intense shrug in response. “You usually pound your drinks down.”

“I’m tired. That movie wore me out,” Patrick said. He fixed on the swirl of his beer to avoid conversation.

Carmen turned to Pete, “Trust me, Trick loves his drinks. He’s probably trying to be cute and polite for you.”

“I’m not!”

The teasing, storytelling, and bottle clinking died out some time later. Carmen and her boyfriend felt they should sober up in the backseat of their car, Pete insisting he was fine to drive. He had purposefully avoided anything heavy.

His voice was smooth, blending with the hum of the wheels on the road, “Your friends are pretty cool. I wouldn’t mind hanging with them again.”

“They definitely liked you.”

“Oh, because of the booze? Of course! What’s the point of dating an older man if you can’t have a good hookup.. For booze, I mean,” Pete beamed. He thought that was funny.

Patrick’s lips were still, and he parted them in surprise when Pete’s tone shifted. 

“Was earlier too much?”

“No,” Patrick said quickly. It was out of habit for not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings, regardless of what they may have done. The memory of what had happened and how he had behaved bubbled to the surface of his mind. He realized his timid demeanor may have been too ridiculous. “I’m sorry if I’m kind of quiet. It’s been a long time since, since, err, my parents were giving me this crazy serious talk about college this morning. It had me sad and stuff. They need to let up about it.”

Pete listened. The excuse to avoid a discussion, whether it was legitimate or not, intrigued him. College consumed countless hours and could lead to Patrick having to move away. He couldn’t have that. His personal savior should be within reach. He wouldn’t stand to do this get-to-know-you stage and then have that work crumpled to be tossed aside. Because of college.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from your parents and whatever school they want to whisk you away to,” Pete said. He nodded, the road ahead beginning to wind. He believed what he was saying.

Patrick knew what he was hearing was a silly, if not severe, form of comfort for his problems. From the freeway exit, he guided them to his home. It didn’t phase him when Pete took the shortcut to their destination without having it explained. It wasn’t used by drivers outside of his neighborhood.


	4. Chapter 4

Pete’s studio apartment in Inglewood was his least favorite place to be. Quite a drive from Hermosa Beach, seated at the top of a twelve story complex. It was dull - the walls yearning for something more than their neutral coat of paint, his 1980’s style appliances and crammed closet of clothes and shoes kept clean, almost sparkling. The sole pieces of furniture he owned were a bed and a desk with a thin office chair. 

His desk is where he did most things; screwing around on his laptop and paying bills via snail mail because he didn’t trust the security of the Internet and staring at the wall and writing. 

Whenever he was writing, it had to be with paper and pen. Writing was important, it deserved paper and pen. The paper gave him a sense of reality, as opposed to his laptop screen, the pen bleeding out along the lines in a way he loved. He kept a haphazard journal and collection of poem-esque musings. The journal was updated after anything he considered significant occurred, while his musings happened when he was feeling particularly low. Or high. Recently, the journal had been abandoned. From the day of his rescue by Patrick, he couldn’t stop writing about him. It’s not that his musings were about Patrick, the boy _was_ his muse. The best little sonnets and odes were duct taped to the space above his desk. They wavered under the flow of the ceiling fan, wind chimes guarding the copper can where he stored his pens.

It was crazy, really. Pete had never had romantic or sexual feelings for anyone. He had been immune to playground teasings about who he liked, unbothered by the woe of being dateless for his junior prom. The closest he had come to a special feeling was admiring the sharp features of Kit Harington in Game of Thrones. But though it was a man he was admiring, he held no similarities to Patrick. The essence of Patrick was juvenile, fair, chubby, a type that he didn’t know he had. His spine tingled thinking of him. Seeing Patrick gave him the urge to lay in bed for hours, touching and kissing, delicious desires that he knew he should have experienced long ago. If he was a regular guy. Like he had said before, if he to put a label on it, ‘asexual’ would fit best. A self-diagnosis he hated to discuss with an aversion to treatment. The psychologist he went to throughout high school had informed him that the inability to seek intimate relationships was a coping mechanism for those with bipolar disorder. It was unhealthy and could further spiral the disorder. He had been advised to start small, spend time with people who caught his attention, then work toward dating and getting physical. He had also been advised to be with a person with more relationship experience, expectedly older than himself. 

Fuck that. Patrick was his treatment, a pill he could wash down with lubrication of a single thought. 

He suspected the attraction was from being saved, and he couldn’t care less. What did it matter if they had met in line at the grocery store, or by dramatic rescue? Patrick was the one for him. He owed him his life, and he wanted so badly for their lives to be entangled. 

It was the day after their double date at drive-in. He wanted to text Patrick, and was forcing himself to wait by keeping occupied with a project. He had brought in his longboard from his car’s trunk, the nicked wood of the underside currently face up on his desk. Among the Thrasher and vintage metalcore stickers, he cleared a space with a smear of liquid paper. With his pocket knife, he began to carve. He didn’t think he should get too outrageous, so, delicately, he etched in ‘P A T R I C K’. At random, he filled the spaces in with hearts. It took him a good hour to be satisfied. He wanted it to look nice, despite the unlikelihood of it being noticed. He would know it’s there. He set the longboard on the carpet and pulled out his cell phone.

_Is it too soon to tell you how beautiful you were last night?_

\---

“Miles was bummed that you cancelled on him,” Carmen said. She grinned. “But, I mean, your guy was definitely a stud. I’d go after him if he wasn’t gay.”

Patrick’s bailing on his and Miles’ plans wasn’t his preferred topic. He winced, “He’s.. I don’t know if he’s fully gay. He never said. And don’t you mean you’d go after him if you weren’t taken?”

“Oh, duh. There's that.”

“So I should never see Miles again?”

“I’d do that, yep. Politics and such. He probably hates you.”

Together, they made faces and poked at each other’s sides, not stopping until a group of joggers glared at them. They were seated on a hill, the sparse grass serving as cushions for the scene of the concrete path and shoreline in front of them. Today was the only off-duty day Patrick had that coincided with Carmen’s, her retail job recently working her into overtime.

“Pete’s just a little intense,” Patrick admitted. He shifted to sit crisscross, his shorts snug on his thighs. “Sometimes I don’t know what to say. Or like, what to do.”

“He’s older, let him lead.”

“What if--”

Carmen cut him off, sighing playfully, “You’re nervous, and it’s okay! You’ve got a guy with a car, a job, looks, and he’s got to be more mature than you. Five years on you, right? You spoiled.”

Patrick was shy now. He knew what he was hearing was true. The finer points of how Pete initiated affection were lost on him, for a moment, Carmen’s praise floating within his mind. He felt smug, eyes flashing at her and voice lowering.

“I guess I’m spoiled. You could count the fact that he gives great head, too.”

“Oh! You dirty animal!”

They giggled, and soon the conversation changed. Nevertheless, Patrick remained the center of attention, the topic of lifeguarding unavoidable whenever they were at the beach. Carmen didn’t mind. Her features were sympathetic and interested. Her nods to Patrick’s complaints about permanently smelling of sunscreen were genuine, though she kept thinking of what had been said of Pete. It was all nerves, nothing more. She wanted Patrick to be happy. He had never been exposed to an actual relationship, and she knew he was jittery due to the good looks and age gap. This was what he needed. 

Later, when she waved to him from the opposite end of the parking lot where they parted ways, she spotted him already fishing in his pocket for his cell phone. She had heard it ping with a new text message, and since she was with him at the time, she assumed the sender was either Pete or his mother. And she had never seen him that eager to answer to his mother.

Patrick read the message, smiled, and typed a reply. 

_Not too soon. Thanks. Wyd?_

\---

The steam from Pete’s shower hadn’t settled at the time of the returned text. It waltzed around his apartment’s ceiling. Through the towel he patted over his head, he spied the blue notification light on his Android. He dropped the towel. 

On his bed, he read the message and hoped he could catch Patrick for a full chat.

_Does wyd stand for What you doing?_

_Yea_

_Showering. I mean, I got out a minute ago. Be weird if I had my phone in the shower._

_It’s weird you’re telling me that._

_Nah. I could show you instead._

_??_

_IMAGE314_DOWNLOAD.png_

_IMAGE315_DOWNLOAD.png_

Patrick allowed the mini strip show to unfold in the safety of his locked bedroom. His back was to his door, having slid down to carpet. He had never received such.. tasteful nudes before. If one could call them nudes. There wasn’t any technical nudity, merely a powerful implication. 

The first photo spanned from the top of Pete’s head to his chest, bare aside from those dark sprigs of hair in the center. He wasn’t giving a specific look, his lips in a line and his thick eyebrows tilted upward in the slightest arch. His biceps and tattoos were striking, Patrick wanted to touch them in person. The second photo displayed Pete’s stomach, flat and tanned like the rest of him. A towel covered him below the waist. The hand that wasn’t used to take the picture was on the towel. The way he held his cock made Patrick’s stir. 

He peered around his room. Poppy, rolling in the wood chips, was his singular witness. He hesitated, and then placed her nighttime blanket over her cage. He swept his gaze over the photos again before he shimmied out of his shorts. He tossed them toward the laundry hamper and went to lay on his bed. Cell phone in one hand, the other squeezing his newfound erection. 

_You look good. Wish I could see your eyes._

_My eyes are shit brown and you know it. Yours are perfect._

_NEW_ATTACHMENT.png_

Pete bit his lower lip in excitement. In the photo he had received, Patrick was seen from angle as if he were looking down at him. His blue eyes were in full view, and he couldn’t see past his shoulders. It was a conservative shot compared to his own. Still.

_Perfect. Wish you would smile. Is that a v-neck you’re wearing? Naughty._

_Wow now I’m def not showing you more._

_You were going to?_

_No_

_Can I show you more of me?_

How Patrick’s photo had been twisted into being worthy of the ‘Naughty’ comment was annoying. And sort of hot. Yeah, it was. Slow and measured, he rubbed his cock, embarrassed of how he was anticipating more photos and scrolling up to the previous ones. He was typing out a response when he heard the new message notification.

_IMAGE316_DOWNLOAD.png_

Patrick took his time. He drank in that body, the photo giving him a view he hadn’t realized he thirsted for. Pete’s arm was delightfully flexed, a grip on his hard cock. It was so pronounced, his hand was made to leave a couple inches uncovered. The tip was pointed at the camera, fat and flushed with rushed blood. Unfocused in the background was Pete’s content expression.

The speed of Patrick’s rubbing increased, and he had to force a pause. He returned the text with a shaky thumb.

_I like that. How about I give you one more pic if you do me a favor?_

_Name it._

_Could you call me? Don’t say anything besides what you’d do to me._

_It’s a date._

_NEW_ATTACHMENT.png_

Seeing the fresh photo, Pete breathed out. He was elated. Patrick’s erection, presented in low lighting with some boxer coverage, was all his. Fuck, it was shiny with pre-cum. He touched himself for a moment longer and hit the call button.

Their mutual masturbation was hurried along with Pete’s words. As eloquently as he could manage, he detailed to Patrick how he would make him cum with his mouth, how he would eat his ass and fill it with a load that was too big, how it would drip over his thighs. He was pretty sure that Patrick had finished prior to the end of his description, but he went on. Eventually, breathing was the only thing to be heard between them. He knew he had agreed not to say anything besides what he would do, yet he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, Patrick?”

“Huh?”

“I think I’m falling for you.”


	5. Chapter 5

The bench Patrick was seated on was uncomfortable, though familiar, and he grunted after turning to one side, spine popping near the bottom. His fingers brushed along his hair, blonde strands wet with sweat, rough with dried sea water. That contrast calmed him. He was alone in the locker room, his shift ended early by his supervisor who deemed him too distracted today. He was. He slumped, the towel tucked around his hips sagging. He looked at the mirror within his locker, identical to the other two dozen, and tried to change his expression. The corner of his mouth twitched. 

Usually, if he had plans or was going to be out and about when a shift was over, he would only wash below the neck. His hair tended to look good from the wind and whatever else, a styled set of locks that no products could replicate. It didn’t matter to him if it wasn’t clean. And he was certain that if he didn’t have to wear his lifeguard cap, it would be even better. This afternoon, he was off to the mall outside of Anaheim. His paychecks were tired of being in his bank account, he could tell, they needed to be spent. He planned on purchasing some shirts. Nice button-downs that were either one plain color or had a minimalistic pattern. The graphic tees or school tees (involving either band or Shakespeare club or French club) he owned seemed beyond him. He was growing up. The pastel shirt with quotes from _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ he planned to change into and how detached from it he was furthered this idea. This sudden style change was because he planned to go on more dates, he should dress smart. It was fun, different for him. Not that the person he had in mind for those dates would care either way, he supposed. Nor would they likely be going anywhere with more class than the local Olive Garden.

He reached for his mesh shoulder bag.

Inside, he rolled his cherry red swim trunks into the front pocket for the laundry later. His tank top followed. He pawed through half-used tubes of sunscreen and smushed protein bars until he located his cell phone. No messages. He tapped the messages icon and selected his ongoing conversation with Pete. 

Patrick didn’t want to think too hard just yet. He thumbed toward the exchanged images, ignoring his own, and gazing at what he had been sent. That body was gorgeous, put on display for him like a personalized pornographic photo shoot. It spurred a prickle of lust in his stomach. He recalled how he had gotten off to them in combination with Pete’s voice. His voice. Low and hungry and fuzzed by the Wifi connection.

_“Hey, Patrick?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“I think I’m falling for you.”_

This is where his memory stopped. He couldn’t relive much past this moment without a strange sensation. It was heavy for him, the fumble that followed. He had choked out a ‘Really?’ and thought he had heard Pete repeat himself. There was a chuckle on his own part - the kind you do when your boss tells a racist joke - and a minute of ‘Talk to you soon’ and ‘Goodbye’. How fast that call had ended. To him, it had been humiliating, their session of jerking off with their cell phones pressed between ear and shoulder less so. He exited out of the messages. 

“No,” he muttered aloud. The tiles beneath his naked feet were hot from his unmoving position. He would get to this later. He had a date scheduled with Pete tomorrow evening, and he was going to address what had happened then. That made sense.

Well, didn’t people ask to have an exclusive relationship first? The whole admitting to falling for the other person was supposed to come later, wasn’t it? Pete was skipping steps. Not that he was someone who would adhere to a given set of steps, anyway. 

\---

At the underbelly of Pier 28, Patrick guided Pete through a short maze of sand, wooden columns, and the occasional forgotten beach umbrella. He wasn’t a sneaky person, he just happen to know Hermosa Beach. The towel he had brought with them was splayed out at the shoreline, a good meter between them and the ocean. He sat and patted the space beside him.

Pete accepted. He was kissing him before he had fully seated himself, his right hand cupping Patrick’s chin. It was a warm, brief kiss. Their eyes caught the shine of the moon, above them and a few nights short of being full.

“Thanks again for the tickets. And the snow cone,” Patrick said. The bubblegum flavor lingered on his tastebuds. They had left the water park an hour ago, the last couple to leave and indicated so by holding hands for a split-second on their way out. “I have money, too, you know.”

Pete waved him off. 

They hadn’t changed out of their swim trunks, the patterned florals of one quite the inverse to the deep gray of the other’s. It was easy to guess whose was whose. The fabric was damp from their final glide in the lazy river, a torn tank top with ‘Your Sister Thinks I’m Cool’ covering Pete’s chest and an old school gym shirt covering Patrick’s. They leaned in. 

“So, err,” Patrick hesitated, and worked a smooch on Pete’s cheek, the chlorine from today sour from where it had dried. He avoided the area that he had bitten less than a month ago, the cuts healing with bruised spots surrounding them. “About the other day. You’re falling for me?”

“I am.”

“Oh.”

“Should I not be?”

Patrick shook his head, “I can’t tell you how to feel. If you mean it, then okay.”

For an instant, Pete frowned, and he quickly remembered that he shouldn’t, “I mean it. You’re such a dream to me.”

The conversation suspended itself. A wave’s pounding of the coast and the distant horn of a cargo ship consumed the sound space. Nobody knew what to say. Pete simply pretended to. 

“If you don’t feel the same about me yet, or if you don’t ever, I’m not mad. It’s fine. And I don’t mean ‘It’s fine’ in the way teenaged girls do when their mom asks them if they’re happy with the hand-me-down minivan for their sweet sixteen. It’s really, really fine,” he said, his hair, fluffier than usual today from a lack of straightening, pushed behind his ears. 

“Yeah?” Patrick said, pleased by what he heard. He also pretended he knew what to say, “I could feel the same. But I have a strict policy where I don’t fall for anyone without being in a relationship, aha.”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” 

“I, yeah,” Patrick answered, caught off guard despite it all. “Of course. I thought you’d never ask.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to. I assumed we already were official, with all the time spent together.”

Patrick laughed at the joke, and Pete laughed along with him upon realizing he thought it _was_ a joke. 

“This actually works out, I have this thing I saw yesterday and got for you. Consider it an anniversary gift. Our zero anniversary? Here,” Pete chirped, and turned to the drawstring bag he had brought with them. Inside, he withdrew a small bundle of plastic that he had kept in the case for his sunglasses. As he held it between them, he switched on his cell phone to flashlight mode. There was an enamel pin visible in the clear wrappings, its metallic sheen outlining Mia Wallace in her classic pose from _Pulp Fiction_. Her pupils and smoke from her cigarette were coated in a glitter epoxy. He dropped it in Patrick’s hand, neglecting to leave out the detail about how he had seen the movie poster for Tarantino’s masterpiece in Patrick’s bedroom. From the time he had broken in to leave the poem. “I thought it’d look cute on your lifeguard bag.”

“It would! It’s awesome, thank you,” Patrick said. Staring at it for an extra moment, he tucked it among the front pocket of his swim trunks. He hugged him. He was pretty sure he had mentioned _Pulp Fiction_ as a top movie choice that night they had been at the drive-in theater. 

Pete nestled deeply into the hug. He choked down the fact that the object of his affections hadn’t reciprocated his feelings in full, and became aware that he fell for him harder, that touch encouraging him. He exhaled.

“You know something?” 

“Hm?” Patrick hummed, content. His head was tilted with interest. 

“I’m terrified of the ocean. I have nightmares about it eating me.”

\---

Patrick sat in his kitchen. His father had essentially glued him to one of the countertop barstools, which he hated, the things were hard and pinched his lower back, and was lecturing him. His mother had joined them at the sound of raised voices. She was the mediator, and didn’t have to say much. His father was always gentler in her presence. 

“What am I going to do? Feed and house you until I die?” 

“No. I’m saving to move out.”

“If you were attending college, you could live here without me on your back. And you could use that money you’re making to pay for the college!” 

“I’m not going to college. Not right now, anyway.”

His father turned toward the wall, frustrated. He grumbled a moody string of words to his wife who hushed him, and smiled at Patrick. The appearance of her smile didn’t hide the concern.

“Dad..”

Patrick pouted, and aimed it at his unfinished breakfast. He had been perfectly satisfied standing over the sink and inhaling scrambled eggs with toast before his father had launched this lecture, the food now abandoned on the plate. The cinnamon butter he loved had spilled over the side of the plate and onto the granite countertops from when he put it aside. Angrily put it aside, he would say. He disliked being interrupted while eating. This wasn’t fair! He tried to be careful with what he said, “I’ll go to college next year, I promise.”

His father blinked, questioning, “You think you can keep on living here?”

“I can pay rent, don’t worry.”

“Patrick, I don’t want you paying rent. I want you to get an education.”

“I will! I need time, okay?”

“You won’t be getting that time here,” it was dictated. And huffing to himself, his father headed toward the opposite end of the house. A wake of uncertainty radiated behind him.

His mother paused in front of him prior to trailing behind her husband, noting, “We love you, sweetie pie. I do, and your father does - you know that.”

Already turning away, Patrick was moving through the kitchen by the time his mother’s comfort had been delivered. Breakfast be damned. He was sneering at nothing in particular, tears threatening the corners of his eyes, and exiting the house through the garage door. He walked to his car, cell phone in hand. He was sending out a mass text, at least ten of his closest friends and acquaintances on the recipient list. Not a group text, he was attentive in selecting the correct settings, they were individual threads to have it seem personal. That was the best way to get it done, he figured. In the Celica’s driver seat, he typed the message.

_Hello! I’m probably going to be kicked out of my house any day now. Could I stay with you for a bit? I could pay rent until I save enough to get my own place. Let me know! : )_

It was sent a moment later, and he drove from his neighborhood to the freeway onramp to visit an ice cream shop that had soft serve the way he preferred it. Huge portion sizes and perched on chocolate-dipped cones. His stomach’s excitement subsided at the realization of the traffic he had to fight and how he should be saving money at this point. God, that sucked. His cell phone pinged with a new message.

It didn’t surprise him that Pete was the first to answer.


	6. Chapter 6

“Hey.”

Patrick fell into Pete’s arms. It wasn’t done in the romantic, classy style you read about novels aimed at older women without weekend plans, no, it involved more stumbling. And grabbing.

Their fronts pressed together, their mouths did, too, and Patrick dropped his backpack. The socks and underwear lining its bottom softened the _thud_. Pete’s hold on those creamy hips shifted to catch his cheeks, thumbs smoothing over the sideburns he found. Their soundtrack grew louder, grunts and sighs of relief joining in, and the apartment was painfully silent in comparison. They had been waiting almost two weeks for this - Patrick to escape his father’s growing frustration with him and Pete because, fuck, he had this kid in his apartment. 

“Over here,” Pete directed, gesturing with one shoulder toward his bed. He wanted to do this now. The lighting was perfect, the blinds opened by an inch to allow the twilight to pass through. “Queen-sized big enough for you?”

Patrick teased him, “Are you talking about the bed or yourself?”

“Oh, so now you’re calling me a girl? Joke’s on you, I’d love to be Queen. Of England, anyway. All those scones and corgis,” Pete said. He guided them to the bed, the crisp sheets instantly becoming crinkled. They were seated on the edge, near the pillows.

Patrick shook his head, and was made warm by continuing what they had started at the door. He was nudged into the mattress, Pete’s t-shirt removed once he was above him. Between kisses, he peeked at the exposed skin. It was perfectly the way he remembered, the fluff of dark hair below his bellybutton a new detail. He was hard within a minute. The Chino shorts he wore pushed upward as he gripped Pete’s middle with his thighs. He wanted to be rubbed, licked, the things that painted a blush across the bridge of his nose. When he broke them apart, fully erect and winded, he realized something. He held out a hand. 

“Let me,” Patrick fumbled, his elbows serving to prop him upright. “Like, can I? For you? I haven’t--”

“My dick?” Pete offered. He smiled. 

Pete stood from the bed and finished undressing. He involuntarily brushed a palm over his cock and looked to see if Patrick was looking. His smile widened. 

“I can, uhm..”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to, I think it would turn me on.”

“You think?”

“Half the people in my high school used to call me ‘Cocksucker’. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them,” Patrick said. The humor was an effort to mask his jitters. He beckoned the older boy back to the bed. His heart bounced to a quicker rhythm for the sight of Pete at close range. He glanced at those bright brown eyes, asking, “How do you like it?”

Pete shrugged, “I just like you. Do what you feel is best.”

“I’ll try.”

Pete eased himself to lay out on the bed. He helped Patrick nest between his legs, and was tender in the placement of his hand behind Patrick’s neck. He was surprised by how quickly he was taken in, entirely, to the base of his cock with that tongue lapping at his sac. A swig of air was sipped through his teeth. It was the enthusiasm that got him more than the act itself. He was desired in a sexual way by whom he desired the most.

It wasn’t that Patrick wanted to get this over with, quite the opposite - he hoped to get past the initial shock of having someone prodding at the back of his throat, and then enjoy the experience. As he worked his mouth in a steady motion, he moved both hands to touch the area where Pete’s thighs met his groin, that little fold of skin ironed flat. He could soon feel his own saliva dampening the space, leaking from his pursed lips. Pete’s erection was curved, and it was difficult to not be sloppy. He had to follow a C shape that he hadn’t expected.

His thoughts were a mess.

Of course, he was glad to be out of his parent’s home. Essentially. His parents loved him, he knew that, but he couldn’t go another day with muttered disappointments and looming threats of homelessness from his father. Those things had irritated him to the point of finally packing and reversing out of the driveway, for what he assumed would be a good chunk of time, this morning. His backpack, laptop, a couple of duffel bags, and Poppy with her items being the total of he carried with him in the Celica. No friends or relatives would have him, they ‘Didn’t have room’ or ‘Didn’t approve of his actions’. He was so grateful for Pete: the single person agreeing to taking him in until his life sorted out, hauling in everything for him in the late July heat to further crowd his studio apartment. It was definitely an act of care that neither of them discussed aloud, obvious by their choice to immediately put themselves all over each other. That’s what they should do, wasn’t it? 

Pete had refused any rent or utilities payment, claiming that help with groceries would be enough. He had also told Patrick that they would be sharing a bed, and made no suggestion to alternative arrangements. Not that Patrick was about to argue. They were together, it made sense. And Patrick had some guilt to deal with on this free ride, so it was equally sensible that he should give Pete extra attention. He didn’t want to be a bad boyfriend.

Patrick choked and lost the tempo he had created. It had been less than five minutes. He swallowed hard, coughing and pulling off. He had distracted himself. Shit. An apology was whispered and he returned to the blow job. Eye contact was made. 

“Want a break?” Pete’s hands were already on the shorter boy’s shoulders, urging him to sit up. He couldn’t wait for an answer. He was alternating their positions and undoing the button on those cute shorts. “I actually kinda want to do you. Blow you.”

Wait, had he done that terrible? Was his ignorance on how to suck someone off worthy of pity? Patrick was going to refuse, say it wasn’t fair, although Pete’s grip beneath his briefs was sufficient to stop him. The mattress molded around him while he tensed and had his lower half exposed. In the quiet, marred only by kisses on the strained tip, his thoughts stirred again.

He was being taken care of. In every sense of the word. It was comforting, considering his situation, and, sort of kind of, weird. They had known each other for less than a summer. Not yet familiar with the passing of a season. Pete was older, and a bit fierce at times. He enjoyed him, though. Usually. Their relationship was faster than what, based from what he had witnessed in his friends’ lives, was normal. Still, it was easy to blame his eagerness (horniness). It was the moving in together that really set them apart, even with Patrick’s novice perception of relationships. He needed a place to stay. Pete was the best option. This wouldn’t be permanent. He had to ensure Pete understood that, beyond his gratitude, he had plans to leave.

“Ah.. Pete..”

The speed of Pete’s mouth around Patrick’s cock had increased, and he was embarrassed by how every stroke seemed capable of sending him over the edge. Patrick watched Pete’s fingers pinch the baby fat above his hips. He whimpered. Combined with his reeling thought process, he became nervous. One hand went to push at that ruffle of black hair. His fingers dipped right through its somewhat greasy texture. He cleared his throat to find his voice. 

“Can, can we stop? I feel dizzy,” Patrick said, not entirely lying. His head arched forward. He didn’t receive a response, and continued, “Later, okay?”

Pete paused, his gaze glinting, and held Patrick’s cock with his left hand, his mouth finding its way to just below his sac. He slurped, tongue whipping back and forth. It was as if he was trying to French him there, so sensitive and enveloping. His hand was tugging along Patrick’s cock with the help of his saliva, the sheen of the pink flesh a beauty. It was exciting, a technique he noticed in a lot of the porn had he been viewing lately. He smacked Patrick’s wrists when he reached down to do who knows what, and finished him off. He had to. The final swipes of his tongue were slow, hand at the tip to catch what Patrick had to give. Those groans reverberated and his palm filled with a puddle of cum.  


Pete, careful not to spill, leaned to kiss the younger boy, lips on the corner of his. He then went to the bathroom to rinse. A comment was made about celebrating their first night, and it floated over the bed.

Patrick was stunned. Outside, the twilight withered.

\---

“I’ll be home soon. I know, I know, you’re my good girl,” Patrick was telling Poppy. She wiggled her nose the same way she always did and remained firm in his lap. She was given several long scratches across the top of her head before being replaced in her cage. The cage commanded a good two feet by two feet of the apartment’s tiny breakfast nook. Her water bottle was filled, the drips attracting her interest. Patrick chuckled. 

He hadn’t seen Pete all morning, which was a rarity. Five days having passed since he had been officially settled in, and he had been alone for what he would guess was less than ten hours. Pete was supposedly out on errands, so said the latest text and the missing twenty dollars he had dropped on the counter for groceries. He expected him to buy the Lucky Charms he had asked for. 

In the doorway with his lifeguard bag at his side, Patrick stretched. He was sore from being hugged at random intervals in the night, his neck in particular. The daylight caused his keys and Mia Wallace pin to sparkle while he locked the door. He had to leave early, the traffic from the apartment to Hermosa Beach was a doozy at this hour, and, at the very least, he would be at peace. By himself. He wondered if Pete would be home in the evening and knew, without a doubt, he would be. It bothered him in a manner he avoided dwelling on. Maybe he could idle in the city. 

Half past seven, with the sun beginning to spark against the ocean in the distance, Patrick’s shift ended. He took a full shower and was among the last to leave the locker room. He played with his cell phone in his car, eventually typing in ‘Drinks’ and ‘Nearby’ his location in Google Maps. There was a Vietnamese coffee shop on the next street over, and he decided to check it out. He parked in the shop’s lot and headed inside, lazily savoring the espresso and sweetened condensed milk at one of the barstools. Halfway through his drink, a text from Pete appeared at the top of his cell phone’s screen, questioning where he was. He hit ‘Mark as read’ and finished his coffee. The leftover ice was chewed, the straw suffering the same fate. He left the cup in his car, abruptly inattentive upon noticing the Firebird parked in a crooked manner on his return to the complex. Huh.

“Hello?” Patrick called, shutting the door behind him. He tucked his keys into his pocket and flipped on the lights. Pete was waiting on the bed. “Oh, there you are.”

“Here I am.”

“.. You okay?”

“No.”

Pete rushed him. He took a few strides and slapped Patrick’s bag out of his grip, hands on his forearms. It took every smidge of control he had not to shake him. Though his speech was a roar, absolutely shaking vulnerable eardrums.

“The fuck are you doing? Staying out late and not answering me?”

Patrick was startled, stuttering, “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t th-think it was a big deal.”

“You won’t do that again!”

“I won’t!”

“Promise me that you WON’T.”

“I promise!”


	7. Chapter 7

_Trick. 18. SoCal is SoNot me._

_"Do I listen to pop music because I'm miserable,  
or am I miserable because I listen to pop music?_

_~ john cusack_

Pete had heard of people stalking each other on social media, but, well, that’s not what this was. He was protecting Patrick, ready to save him from danger. Almost like he was returning the favor. A productive way to spend his day off.

He scrolled past the Instagram bio and reached the most recently uploaded photos, presented in neat, filtered rows of three. It wasn’t a private profile, which meant he didn’t have to be logged into his own stupid account to see what he wanted to see. He hated having those extra apps on his cell phone. His thumb hovered over the second photo. It was of Patrick’s eyes, one winking and with a dusting of sand on the tip of his nose. Really cute. It had more likes than what he had deemed was the usual.

When he tapped it, he read the caption, “The beach adores me!”, followed by a wave emoji. There was a comment below.

_the.coolest.aaron: I adore those eyes whoa_

Patrick had liked the comment.

Pete sighed, his new task to investigate ‘the.coolest.aaron’ and his profile. He opened it to reveal that this jackass was, apparently, someone who worked at one of the boutiques near Hermosa Beach’s trendy little street behind the boardwalk. He could read the the boutique’s name in the background of one of his photos. What an ugly, unfit face he had. Hm. It was only four in the afternoon. If he hustled, he could try and catch Aaron as he was leaving work and beat the shit out of him. He could ask him why he was following Patrick’s profile, scream he didn’t care, and let him know he wasn’t available. Ever.

Since it wasn’t quite autumn, they were in the third week of August, the sun would provide plenty of light, and witnesses, if he did such a thing. Should he wait until later in the year? No, no - he needed to feel better about this before today was over. He switched over to his contacts and dialed Patrick.

No answer. He left a message, voice forced into a gentle tone.

“Hey, so, I guess you’re not on break yet. Call me when you are, I’m worried about something.”

Patrick called him back around twenty minutes later. He knew he had to. If not, whatever Pete was ‘worried’ about would blow up even further. 

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi, Pete. Why did you need me to call you? Everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s good. I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure.”

“Put your Instagram on private. Oh, and unfriend that Aaron guy. The one from that men’s shop near the beach.”

Patrick didn’t understand. He treaded carefully, “I can do that. What happened with Aaron?”

“Nothing. I don’t want him seeing your stuff. I don’t want you flirting with other guys.”

From where he was concerned, Patrick hadn’t done any flirting. He thought hard. No, there wasn’t a significant instance he could think of. Not that he was going to argue. He glanced around the break room, empty beyond a girl nodding along with her headphones. He turned to stare at swim trunks, their cherry red fading in unison with the summer season. His cell phone was hot against his ear.

“I won’t flirt with other guys. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, don’t do it again. I’ll see you at home.”

They hung up. Patrick finished his break in silence, nibbling on the Oreos he had packed and ignoring a text from Carmen asking if they could head to a concert together next weekend. He felt shitty.

Pete felt pretty good. Problem solved, and, if not, he would know tomorrow by rechecking. The poem he had been scrawling was finished at a leisurely pace, since he had about three hours until Patrick came home. The pen’s ink seeped over the bottom two lines of the notebook paper, his hand underlining several words. Anger mixed with lust. It was an erotic poem, decorated with violence at the intervals where his mind had wandered. At four pages long, it was thick in his fingers as he folded it. He made the corners even and opened the middle drawer of his desk. He lay it in the stack of other works at the rear. The papers rustled with anticipation, yearning to be placed above the desk, taped for display like in the days without a roommate. The drawer was locked.

With Patrick here, Pete knew he couldn’t have his writing on the wall. Patrick would read them. He wasn’t ready to share with him, especially not what he had been creating recently. Having his muse in close contact, being intimate with him, his imagination was past running wild. It had overdone itself and was collapsed: foaming and twitching with a seizure of crazed love. 

\---

“C’mere,” Pete murmured. His hands knocked Patrick’s bag to the floor, their hug tight and one-sided. He didn’t feel those arms around him until he began to speak, “I know you’ve had a rough day. I’m here for you.”

Patrick hesitated, and he could sense Pete’s chin resting atop his head. It was heavy, questioning.

“Rough day? Not, not really,” he said. “I’m okay.”

Pete chuckled, and he bounced his lips in a trail of pecks over that velvety neck, saying, “I mean, I was kind of pissed at you earlier. On the phone?”

Patrick visibly paled, fearing a verbal trap.

“Oh, no, that wasn’t a problem. It actually was, sorry,” he corrected. Two apologies in one afternoon. The record was around eight or nine at this point. It was difficult to not keep track. His gaze flickered at him for a half-second. “But I fixed it. Don’t worry.”

Pete loosened his hold, and leaned away to watch him, “I don’t want to worry. I don’t want to stay mad at you - how could I? You’re too sweet. I love that about you, it’s my favorite thing.. Please, be sweet just for me. I don’t want anyone else thinking you’re theirs to take.”

There was no opportunity for a reply. They were kissing, Patrick’s palms sticky with involuntary nervousness and Pete’s grip sneaking downward. The air conditioning unit rumbled on, a breeze blowing past their heads. 

“.. I’m not that sweet,” Patrick argued quietly. His face was flushed, pretending to be nonchalant about how his ass was being massaged. He needed to stop coming home in his swim trunks. The elastic was currently expanded, aggressive touches paying their compliments to his cheeks. It tickled and stirred his cock. He yelped at the rogue pinky that brushed between his cheeks, though he did not break contact.

“You are. Absolutely a puddle of honey,” Pete said with finality. His hands stopped and he raised an eyebrow, “I think that’s a big part of what makes you so sweet. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Huh?”

“You’re a virgin.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s part of what makes you all sweet. And I want to fuck you. I’ve been having dreams about how quick I would cum if I was inside you. It’s your fault my dick aches in the morning,” Pete exhaled. He stepped forward and guided the younger boy to have his back to the wall. He heard another, more faint yelp and tuned it out. “It’s a dilemma for me.”

Patrick was keeping himself composed based on the fact that his ass, mostly stuck to the wall, could only be spread so far. He spoke to the bare chest in front of him, head bowed, “I’m not ready yet. Okay? There, that way you don’t have a dilemma.”

Pete’s touch stiffened. A finger feathered at Patrick’s entrance, soon pressing into a pattern of caresses. It was tender, sweaty, sprinkled with hairs that he was certain were a shade darker than those he had his face buried in. 

“You know I can’t let you decide that.”

\---

The water went above Patrick’s head. He couldn’t breathe. 

A cluster of bubbles blew past his nose. He saw them meet the waiting air and burst. Goddamnit, he shouldn’t have his eyes open. He swam to the surface, breaking it with a “ _Gwah!_ ”

He caught his breath by resting on his back, riding the bumps of the ocean. Salt dried on his skin, the sun high. He knew the group was ahead of him. The shouts of excitement to complete the last lap were loud, far-off. His swimming had been slow today. It had been that way the past two weeks, to be honest. Among this, and how he was often being cut short on his shifts for being unfocused, he was discouraged. He was fumbling at his job. That frightened him. He couldn’t lose his source of income and ongoing reason for leaving the apartment. If he had to become financially dependent on Pete, who he had realized was to blame for his poor work performance, he didn’t think he would survive. 

Finishing the workout set was a huge effort for him. He arrived on the beach with dragging feet, and was swift to tug his tank top to cover his upper half. He didn’t want any of the supervisors faulting his weight for his sluggishness. He signed off on the training log sheet, waved, and padded to the locker room without a thought in his head. 

On the curb where he waited for Pete to pick him up an hour later, it was insisted upon for the days that he had training because he would be, apparently, ‘Too exhausted to drive’, Patrick toyed with his cell phone. He was wondering if he should try calling his mother again. His father was definitely a cold wall of indifference, and he could guess that he had ordered his mother to act the same. He had sent her a few texts asking how she was doing with no reply, and had called her around ten days ago after Pete had yanked and scratched at his wrist, an abrasion marking him. They had been disagreeing on their Friday evening plans. His eyelashes had caught the tears while he stood at the bathroom mirror, door locked and sink running to block out the other boy. He shook off the memory. He hit the button to call his mother and had no time to hope, being sent straight to voicemail. He waited for the beep.

“Hi, Mom! Uhm, it’s me. I miss you.. I’ve been staying with a friend, his name is Peter. Wentz. Pete Wentz,” Patrick explained. He rubbed at his sideburns and expected the Firebird to swing into the parking lot at its owner’s mention. It didn’t. “He’s older and has his own place and pays most of the bills. So that’s nice and, sort of, it’s also been hard. We’re not getting along well and stuff. I want to come back home, just for a bit, if Dad will let me. I’m didn’t mean to leave that fast. And I’ll listen to you guys more.”

Pete came flying through the parking lot, and gave little time to react. That phone call would be probed.

“I gotta go. Call me back.”

Entering the Firebird, the cell phone was handed over. The call log was checked, the messages were, too, and Pete didn’t hop on the freeway until he was satisfied.

That same night, laying in bed together, Pete’s arm in a lazy grip over his own chest and snoring, Patrick was awake. The bedside clock claimed in was four minutes to midnight, the neighbor’s dog and its barking not giving a fuck what late hour it was. The city lights, visible from the kitchen window, were enough to keep him from utter darkness. He shifted into a sitting position. He turned his head and found Pete’s desk in his line of sight. From the case he kept beneath his pillow, he pulled his glasses and adjusted them on his face. The desk became sharper.

Had it always had a keyhole on the middle drawer?


	8. Chapter 8

“How long?”

“Maybe an hour? You could go grab us some drinks.”

Pete thought about it. An hour wasn’t too much. If Patrick was going to do what he promised - primping for their first time together - he was sure an hour would make him more delectable than usual. He nodded in agreement and went to kiss near his hairline, whispering, “That’s fine. I’m glad you’re really getting into this.”

“Yeah,” Patrick smiled. He sidestepped. “Bring me something fruity, please. I trust your taste.”

With a laugh, Pete went to grab his wallet, cell phone, and keys. He was taking Patrick’s car. That way Patrick couldn’t leave. His Firebird was a stick shift, and was therefore undriveable for the younger boy. A precaution that was reasonable, in his opinion. He jingled the keys as he waved and exited out the front door. He locked it behind him. Hand still on the knob, he stood and waited, an ear to the cracked wood. He listened.

On the other side, now stripped of a smile and frantic, Patrick looked through the peephole. The fisheye lens showed him what he expected - and he slowly backed into the bathroom, ready to hustle in case the door reopened. It didn’t. He flipped the sink’s faucet on, and threw in the sound of the shower curtain being pulled aside for good measure. The sight of how colorless his face was startled him in the mirror. Stupid. He waited two minutes until he inched to the door’s peephole again. He looked and saw Pete just beginning to leave, turned to walk down the stairs. He refused to move unless he had disappeared. He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and checked the time. Almost eight in the evening, he had less than an hour.

“I know, I know,” Patrick said, speaking to Poppy. What did he know? He couldn’t say, however she couldn’t either, so.. He lay a hand on the top of her cage, and she was motionless aside from her wiggling nose. He reached in, petting her ears, like pieces of felt left in the afternoon sun. She gave a nuzzle when he stopped. He sighed, “Wish me luck.” 

It sucked that, no matter what he found, he was going to have to bend over tonight. 

He walked to Pete’s desk and knelt at the middle drawer after pulling out the chair. A paper clip and bobby pin were plucked from his pocket. He had been watching YouTube videos on how to do this correctly since last week. On his breaks at work, of course, and always deleting his browser history prior to coming home. He held the two objects up to the drawer’s lock. Insert, left, right, left, pressure, pressure, left, right-- He heard a _click_ and his lips pursed in surprise. He tugged on the drawer and realized that, yes, it was now unlocked, but the paper clip and bobby pin were stuck. They had been bent further than necessary. He could fix that later, he hoped. He opened the drawer with both hands. 

From the contents inside, Patrick was disappointed. He swept his gaze over everything a second time to gain the confidence that he wasn’t missing anything. A stack of bills and deposit checks for the bank, several CDs, a pencil, a rolled up pair of earbuds, and a wad of twenties and fifties. He wanted to rip his fingers through it all in frustration. Not an option. Why was this drawer locked, if not due to being a hiding place? Was Pete being weird like this on purpose, or was he himself being a paranoid idiot? There had to be answers in here. One by one, he poked through the stack of paper, assuming it was a cover for sinister evidence to affirm that he wasn’t imagining how strained his situation felt with Pete. Nothing. The papers were readjusted into their neat stack. He shut the drawer and began to yank on the paper clip and bobby pin. He yanked harder, losing his grip a few times, and re-grabbing more hysterically each time.

They eventually came free, and he gasped, noticing a scratch on the lock. The black paint had been chipped to reveal the metal surface beneath. He stood and the scratch wasn’t visible unless you were at eye level. He prayed Pete wouldn’t notice it, and that he wouldn’t notice his drawer had been unlocked. Fuck. He hadn’t thought things through so well. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. 

In the shower, he cleaned off, his clothes from earlier tossed in the laundry hamper. Once he had dried, he sprayed his special occasion cologne, dominated by citrus and vanilla notes, over his collarbones and on his wrists, which he rubbed together. The scent soothed him for a moment. He inhaled and was grateful for the steam clinging to the mirror; he had no desire to know his current expression. He entered the closet and brought down a duffel bag where he kept his socks and underwear. A pair of briefs and some suspenders were removed and slung over his shoulders until he could replace the bag on the shelf. He slipped into them and went to examine his reflection. 

The briefs were snug on his body. His bulge was more prominent because of this, the division of his ass at his crack perfectly visible. The suspenders were from his early marching band days, meant for beneath his uniform, that Pete had seen when he initially moved in. A comment here and there had been made regarding how sexy they could be in the bedroom. They were easy to snap onto his waistband and didn’t make him feel too silly, that was a plus. Both the briefs and suspenders were black, their matching color adding to this illusion of how important his deflowering was.

The ‘twinkle lights’, those tiny, stringed bulbs that glimmered softly when plugged in, a favorite decoration of basic bitches, also helped set the scene. Or mood. Whatever was happening here. Fresh from their box, Patrick draped them over the headboard and let them fall to the left side of the bed where the electrical sockets were. Next to the desk. He crouched and plugged the lights in, the sudden illumination at ground level showing him the corner of a manila envelope behind the desk. It had been slid between the wall and the desk, hastily, the corner not meant to be poking out by less than a quarter of an inch. But it was. He held the corner and brought it to rest on the carpet, remaining crouched. 

A regular manila envelope, the string to seal it not even tied off. He flicked the tab back and checked inside. 

“Whoa,” Patrick gulped. There was a ton of notebook paper inside. Handwritten lines and paragraphs were obvious, and he guessed it was done by Pete. He chose to pull the first page, not wanting to get them out of order. He read it. 

_“Drowning is my second favorite thing, right after Patrick Stump.”_

He switched it for the following page.

_“Patrick gave me a bruise, it’s beautiful. I don’t want it to fade.”_

The following page.

_“Tulips for my Rose, for my heart may decompose.”_

The following page.

_“If loving him hurts, I want to be in pain to the end.”_

Patrick was nauseous from reading. It reminded him of the time his fifth grade teacher had assigned them the book _Touching Spirit Bear_ and he wasn’t prepared for the gory bits. The claws ribboning through the main character’s flesh had been swapped for Pete’s melancholy. So, so much writing.

And it went on. The only means of stopping it was the receipts behind the final page. Wait, receipts? Among this bundle of poetry and journal-like scribblings? There were four, each dated from the spring of 2016 and from the pharmacy at the crossroads for the apartment complex. He blinked and read them. What the hell was Zyprexa, and why was it bought all four times? He had his cell phone out and was loading a Wiki page about it while he delicately stored the envelope and its contents behind the desk. 

Seated on the edge of the bed, Patrick learned that Zyprexa was the brand name for a drug called olanzapine. Used to treat mental health issues such as schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. It was September of 2017, he was in a relationship with Pete, and there was a problem with how his brain worked? Pete was in love and hadn’t taken his medication in a year and a half?

The front door could be heard unlocking. He jumped and forgot to delete his browser history. 

\---

“Do you feel good?” Pete asked. He was palming over Patrick’s shoulders, behind him with his legs on either side. “Because you look fuckin’ fantastic.”

The last swig of his hard apple cider was taken and he set the bottle on the floor. It was his second after his trip to the supermarket. He watched Patrick finish his third shot of coconut cream-flavored vodka. That grimace told him it was strong. Good. He hadn’t bought it for pleasure, of course not, he wanted him drunk - and he wasn’t having any. His wits were going to be kept about him for this. The cider was enough.

“Just tipsy,” Patrick replied quietly. The shot glass was handed to Pete, and he went to set it in the sink. “You think it’ll make things, uhm, smoother, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need you fighting me.”

Patrick tucked his legs beneath himself, pupils dilated, “I wouldn’t do that. Pete, I, you know I wouldn’t.”

“Do you love me like I love you?” 

Pete was on all fours, pawing his way from the foot of the bed to where Patrick was. His eyes were shiny in the low lighting. His hat, sweat-stained and embroidered with the Vans logo, was dropped to the floor and his t-shirt and basketball shorts were the next to go. Underwear was never a necessity when he wore those shorts, leaving him in the nude. He wasn’t shy about how hard he was, either. 

“Yes,” Patrick said, understanding that ‘Yea’ wouldn’t have been appropriate for the question. Nor would a lie be. He yelped in surprise at the touch of Pete’s hands, abrupt and pinching on his forearms. 

“No, a complete sentence. Do you love me like I love you?”

“.. I love you.”

They were soon wrapped in a kiss. The suspenders were kept on as long as Pete could stand to not unclip them to get his briefs shoved down. Patrick started to shiver from the instant he was exposed. He wasn’t cold, it was his fear stirring this reaction. The cold didn’t come until the lube, having been stored in the medicine cabinet, coated Pete’s fingers and went straight up his ass. The alcohol wasn’t helping. Those sex ed. pamphelts from the 90’s in the counselor’s office were right about doing it sober and with someone you could trust. He was clenching and hot and anxious. 

First Patrick’s legs were together, then apart, then together with his cheeks, a dribble of the lube painting his inner thighs, perked upward with the help of a pillow below his stomach. He tracked his breathing and focused on the geometric designs of the sheets, his nose pressed into them. His spine cinched upon sensing the tip going inside, the fullness and stretching pretty intense. 

“Ow,” he muttered without thinking. “Gentle.”

Pete scoffed, “I will be. Stop arching your back, you shouldn’t be moving.”

Patrick knew if there was anything he shouldn’t be doing, it was staying here. He had to get out. If he didn’t, he would, quite literally, be fucked repeatedly. Getting used to it would speed the process of his demise. What he had seen in the writing and the receipts was insanity, and he didn’t have love to give in return. Not from saving him or being blown by him or sharing this apartment with him. He muffled another yelp, the length of Pete’s cock inside. No more a virgin, he supposed. It was a shame about the circumstances. The patterns on the sheets mixed with his thoughts to make him dizzy. 

It was simple for Pete to catch a rhythm. His hips rotated in deep, leisurely thrusts. He was entranced by the smaller boy, how his neck indented the mattress and how his ass provided a heat he had yet to recognize his cravings for. It was heavenly. Patrick, his angel, his savior, was his. He didn’t have to share and they were going to fall further in love until their heads hit the floor, breaking to spill their minds to each other without hesitation. He could hear Patrick slurping in stray drool, and he moaned. He figured they were equally enjoying themselves. He was able to orgasm in a few minutes, the slick noise of his softening erection moving through the lube and cum put a grin on his face. A grunt escaped him, shifting to smooch the side of his lover’s neck.

Patrick was limp.


	9. Chapter 9

Patrick’s cell phone was tight against his ear. He hit the replay button when he arrived at a red light to hear his mother’s voicemail for a second time. Her tone was disappointed, or what parents claimed was disappointment when they didn’t want to say that they were pissed at you. She mentioned that she loved him, missed him around the house, blah, blah. Nothing about him being able to come home. Not after he had abruptly walked out due to the riff with his father. His subtle pleading and explanation of his situation in previous voicemails hadn’t been enough. Perhaps, he supposed, his father wasn’t allowing his mother to accept any of it while he called the shots. The voicemail ended and he shut his eyes. The car behind him honked after he had waited three seconds too long at the green turn arrow signal. His cell phone was tossed to the passenger seat, the cracked screen catching the sunshine.

Today was Saturday, and also the first day of September. He had managed to schedule a hang out with Carmen at the weekend market near downtown, where it was shaded and loud and far from Hermosa Beach. He had said he felt like getting lunch and maybe dessert. They needed to talk, it had been a week and half. He stole a glance in the rearview mirror to notice the bags beneath his lower lash line. He was tired. A certain someone had told him how gorgeous he was this morning, and he found that difficult to believe.

The parking spot he snagged was a good distance and he was sporting a sheen of sweat within a minute of walking.

“Glad you’re here, all smiles,” Carmen teased. She pulled back from their embrace and gestured to a nearby table, two peach smoothies, that were about half whipped cream, already in place. “You were taking forever, you know, I thought I’d save us a wait in line.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said gratefully, the teasing about how grumpy he must seem ignored. “Sorry I took a long time.”

“You know I don’t care. I figured you were busy in your lover’s nest doing what lovers do. How’s Pete?” Carmen asked. She was going for a direct bandaid rip, whether she was aware of it or not. They were seated at the table, side by side and people watching.

“Ah, he’s fine. We’re still getting adjusted to living together.”

“You guys fighting?”

“No.”

“What, he leaves the toothpaste cap off?”

“No.”

“Sex has taken a nosedive?”

“Jesus, no,” Patrick snapped, both hands gripping the smoothie. He recognized that his brow had furrowed, and tried to relax. “He’s been weird lately. I think there’s something wrong.”

Carmen had begun to sip as she listened, and nudged him to do the same. She was confused when Patrick didn’t continue speaking. Her sipping paused, her copper bracelets jingling with movement. She looped their arms together.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hey, hey! Montoya, Stump!”

Patrick and Carmen perked, the call coming from several yards in front of them. They could see Jeff Hidel, a kid they had graduated with and used to ditch class with, waving at them with a few other acquaintances around him. It was effortless to spot him with that same short mohawk from senior year. He and his group moved in their direction, Carmen enthusiastically returning the wave. She beamed and tugged on Patrick’s arm. 

“C’mon! We haven’t seen them in forever.”

“Okay.”

It wasn’t what Patrick had planned, standing around and being social, but he guessed, for now, it was better than having to face the facts about Pete. They would have time later. He would explain what he found snooping around Pete’s desk, how their sex life was truly going, and the constant state of uneasiness his stomach was in - which he had to say, at this point, wasn’t similar to those first date jitters. He became embarrassed if he dwelled on it, pain stemming from his idiocy and lack of experience on what to do. There was no way what he was going through was normal. And it was fucking ridiculous how much he was going to have to get off his chest. 

In the circle that had formed, he snorted at a joke and nodded to the beat of the conversation. The condensation from the plastic smoothie cup increased in the heat of his palm. He nearly dropped it when he tuned back into what was being said. Shit, they were making plans?

“Trick, are you good with that?” Carmen was facing him. The majority of the group was, as well. Since he had been mostly quiet.

“Huh? Oh, sure, definitely. We can do that,” he said. He blushed at the attention and fiddled with the hem of his button-down without thinking. 

Jeff was punching playfully at his shoulder and saying, “All right! My place is the best. Mom and Dad really know how to stock the booze. And the Oreos.”

Everyone laughed. The happy sound drowned out Patrick’s cell phone giving the notification for two incoming messages from Pete. One was a picture message.

\---

_IMAGE347_DOWNLOAD.png_

_It’s funny how we keep some animals for pets and we eat others. I wonder how it would be to have a pet cow. I wonder what Poppy tastes like._

The asphalt on the freeway seemed to hiss in mockery at how fast Patrick was driving through the night. Morning? The soft glow of his dashboard clock claimed it was a quarter past two a.m. He had been in the middle of pretending he didn’t mind Jeff’s friend with benefits - Allie? Ari? - clinging to him after the group had forced him to sing karaoke, when he noticed there were messages from Pete. They were from earlier that afternoon. One of which was a picture message. It was of Poppy, out of her cage and perched on the counter. She was her adorable, fluffy self. Paired with the text message, however, her environment was the most ominous goddamn thing to ever cross his line of sight. He jumped through the front door of the apartment, his car left unlocked in the parking lot and his breaths short. He had no idea what to expect. Certainly not this.

“Pete.”

“Yeah?”

“What, what are you doing?”

Pete stood, Poppy in the crook of his arm, her eyes blinking from the entryway light that had been switched on. On the outside, they could pass for a normal boyfriend and pet staying awake to wait out of concern. Inside, Pete was smug with the effect of his messages. Even if it had taken a several more hours than expected. He smiled, “We were waiting for you to get home. We have questions for you. Actually, I have all the questions. She’s collateral for your answers.”

Patrick went to his knees, the shabby soles of his Vans skyward. Vulnerable. He had to be in no state to fight back. He would rather take a beating and a dick up his ass than have Poppy get hurt. He gulped and prayed that he could reason with him, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been out late without calling you. No, I should have stayed home to begin with. We need to spend more time together.”

“I can’t leave you alone.”

“You’re right, completely right.”

Patrick scooted by a centimeter, static from the carpet catching on his jeans. His hands shivered with a need to reach out for Poppy. He wondered if she was experiencing his same nervousness.

“I can’t leave you alone because you like to nose around.”

Involuntarily, Patrick winced in the direction of the desk. From the angle he had on the floor, he couldn’t see the manila envelope sticking out from behind it. He didn’t know what to say, since admitting it was a waste of patience, and opted for absolute silence. He couldn’t risk further upset.

“What were you looking for?”

Poppy squirmed, the muscles around her pressing in.

“I don’t know, I was was worried. Please, I really, leave h-her alone!”

“What the _fuck_ were you looking for?”

“Nothing!”

“ _Liar_!”

Pete changed his stance, feet spread apart and his left hand, palm out, aimed at the younger boy, the right around Poppy’s throat. There hadn’t been previous intentions to choke her, and he blamed her owner for acting stupid. Prying and lying about it had consequences. Her fur was ruffled, the spasms of her flight response contorting her body. The rise and fall of her chest was erratic, similar to her captor’s words, “Tell me what you were looking for.”

Patrick’s tears leaked onto his cheekbones, arched high with a grimace, “M-Money! I’m having a hard time saving for college. I didn’t take any, though! I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“Too bad there wasn’t much money in my desk. Not much behind it, either.”

Patrick gasped and stared at him. The manila envelope. His tears flowed more freely and he attempted to move from the floor. It wasn’t going to happen, though, those shouts terrifying him into stillness. 

“What? Did you find out anything!?”

Squeals were erupting from Poppy. She was begging the only way a rabbit could. 

“Tell me NOW!”

“I found,” Patrick was facing the carpet, his blue eyes blurred and unable to witness Poppy’s suffering. He wanted to cover his ears, and was stopped by his fear of Pete’s reaction. Honestly, he was surprised he wasn’t being ordered to keep his head up. He gasped again, the sobs in full swing. His voice was frightened, a million wrong words to be said, weighing on the brink of his lips. To string together a sentence was to seal his fate, and he had never wished to run away this badly before. Playground bullies and high school dances be damned. “I found you, your receipts. For your old prescriptions and.. I think there’s something wrong.”

He had echoed what he told Carmen earlier. 

Pete drank in the claim. He didn’t have a choice. He had asked, and his answer had been given. He had already figured that Patrick came across the receipts, their disheveled appearance simple for him to spot upon retrieving the envelope. But to hear how his privacy had been violated from the violator himself, to realize what was going on in his mind was made visible to the outside world, to Patrick’s world, it hurt. So he hurt in return. 

Poppy’s throat was squeezed. Hard. He let her thud to the floor once her kicking came to a halt. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds. 

“What the fuck! Holy, no, oh my God,” Patrick said shrilly. The little body striking the carpet from a decent height startled him. He shuffled to hold her, lifeless and warm. “Poppy!”

Pete observed him with cold scrutiny. He hated how the mourning over a dead animal came with having to make Patrick understand the pain of betrayal. It sucked to know he was sad. He ground his teeth together. 

“Patrick.”

Crying was the reply. Deep, ugly crying where incoherent bursts of speech happened between wheezes for air. 

“You’re not making me feel the way I’m supposed to.”

Tears coated splotchy cheeks and tufts of fur became caught beneath fingernails. A puddle of Poppy’s urine dampened the carpet.

Pete knelt down. He grabbed Patrick by the chin and created eye contact, saying, “I love you and you need to make me feel loved, too. You’re not making me-- No, Patrick, look at me. I need to feel loved, to be normal. Don’t ever go through my shit. I can’t have you thinking less of me.”

Patrick wanted to laugh. Murdering his rabbit and didn’t want to be thought of as less? How dare he. Though it wasn’t worse than his own shitty lack of action. 

“There’s nothing wrong with me. Keep yourself in check, and I’ll do the same.”


	10. Chapter 10

_“And I want these words to make things right,  
But it's the wrongs that make the words come to life”_

The radio in Pete’s Firebird crackled out the song. It was older and sun damaged, the Throwback Thursday playlist on KROQ difficult to hear among the evening traffic. He lowered the volume, the guitars having become lost in the static. The song continued to be audible, but if you didn’t already know it, the chorus was impossible to make sense of. He leaned back, their exit less than a mile in front of them, though it would be a good twenty minutes until they reached it. He had forgotten to straighten his hair that morning, his bangs flipped and grazing the snaps of his baseball cap. 

“What do you want for dinner? We could cook.”

“I don’t know if I’ll eat.”

“Why?”

“I’m full from earlier.”

Pete paid him no mind, he was going to cook regardless. Their lunch had been hours ago, and it pissed him off when Patrick tried to decide when to eat. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner - that’s how it was supposed to go, all the better if they were in each other’s company, which was typical at this point. He didn’t want him eating less and losing that tummy or those thighs. Nor did he want him to lose the low self-esteem that came with everything. Those were some of his favorite parts. It was the same reason he refused to allow more exercise than his weekly lifeguard training. He began to think what they had in the refrigerator and pantry. 

“We’ve got frozen chicken breast and half a box of spaghetti noodles. Let’s cook that up, I can make a sauce, too.”

“Sure.”

“You’ll eat that?”

“.. Yeah.”

Out the window, beyond the scratches from who knows what and the smog, Patrick squinted. He wished he could see the beach from here. It was the only place where he found peace anymore. At the beach, working the shifts he fiercely pleaded for, he couldn’t have Pete near him. It was against the law to distract a lifeguard on duty. At least, that’s what he had claimed and reiterated to the other boy multiple times over. And he had made certain to alert his supervisors to who Pete was, in case he attempted to pull a bullshit move. He knew he would become a physical wreck if he had to see that face more than was required. He had to maintain this fake contentment. 

Still, there were days that he could feel a protective stare on him while he sat in his guard tower. Similar to right now. Stuck on this packed freeway, with no way out, he was under a watchful eye. If he didn’t leave, dying by his own hand or Pete’s was entirely likely. He had moved past the struggle of realizing this, Poppy’s death secured that, and had entered the action stage. He was prepared to take a step. Fragments of an idea were forming, and he wondered how soon he could flesh it out. His fingers meshed into a nervous knot. 

“Do you work tomorrow?”

“No, I’m off until Monday.”

“Oh. What time on Monday?”

Pete frowned. His tone was suspicious, “Does it matter?”

“No, sorry.”

“We have all weekend together.”

“I know.”

\---

Before Patrick packed his things to leave, he walked to the apartment complex’s nearest dumpster and tossed out Poppy’s cage. Little wood chips fluttered down with, and her toys, grooming kit, and food followed. To get rid of it all, a week past her death, was a relief. He no longer had to be reminded of what happened. The betrayal and sickness he had felt was relived a final time, and it helped to further ignite his plan. He huffed to himself and returned to the apartment. 

Pete was at work until five. It was eleven. 

The bags he had initially brought with him, even his laptop case, were to stay. He was moving their contents to his car, the Celica’s trunk popped as he ferried whatever he had brought with him. He was going to leave tomorrow. If Pete’s nose was kept out of everything, the emptied bags would go unnoticed. He was ready to distract him with a solid bang tonight, too. He had become quite talented at pretending to enjoy how the pounding made his tailbone ache and his teeth cling to the sheets. Forcing himself to cum was a trick he could do on a rare occasion that saved him from being scrutinized. 

On the bed, Patrick ignored the ‘Miss you already’ text and checked the weather for what had to be tenth time in the past few days. He nodded at tomorrow’s forecast and went to check his inbox. He had to read the email from the bank slowly in order to confirm what he thought they were telling him and, yes, fucking thank goodness, he had been approved for his loan. He was going to broke for the next five years or so, and he couldn’t be happier. A mental note was made to call his auntie later that afternoon to thank her for cosigning at her branch of the bank. 

Packing and loans weren’t so bad. It was what had to be done tomorrow that was the tough part. 

\---

“We’ll catch amazing waves today, I promise. The end of the season is really the best.”

Pete said nothing in response. Beneath his arm, he held a surfboard, similar to Patrick’s. The waves were indeed steady, plentiful. They were almost alluring under the blotted-out sun, the water a silvery gray from the reflection of the overcast. His ankle was itchy where the strap connected him to the surfboard, and wax on the frontside was too sticky. He turned away from the ocean. 

Patrick caught him by the shoulder.

“You okay?”

“I don’t want to go.”

Patrick was gentle, reminding him, “I’ll be right there with you.”

“What if.. I get hurt? You know I stress about drowning,” Pete said. He was looking at the ocean again. His heels had sunken into the wet sand from his refusal to move. Combined with his lack of a cap, he always wore one in public, he seemed smaller than usual. Scared.

“You’re fine. I’m right here.”

Pete thought for a moment more. It was him who had originally suggested surfing together, way back in July, and it had been shaken off. To have it brought up abruptly this morning, it was unexpected. He wasn’t opposed to doing couples’ activities. Surfing was doable. It was merely more intimidating with autumn swells and lack of sunny skies. His anxiety was so prevalent, he had allowed himself to be driven to the beach in the Celica. He didn’t think twice. 

Peering around, their isolation could be noted. They were in a less visited section of Hermosa Beach, due to its proximity to a shipyard. The nearest guard tower was a mile up the coast. Not that Pete would need it. He had his own personal savior accompanying him. And among the bundle of actions he had repaid him with, the most recent being, of course, the throat crushing of a beloved pet, he understood that he was safe. He had put Patrick through a mess, and they had come out on top of it. His head felt like it was correctly screwed in, no medication necessary. They weren’t ever breaking apart. Love is what bound them to one another, it’s what made him walk into the water.

“Keep your body pressed flat. No gap between you and the board, c’mon, big strokes,” Patrick urged, the shallows behind them. He noticed measurements of the older boy’s breathing and how his forehead was marred with worry lines. “Good, good. You got a rhythm going! Come out a bit more and watch me.”

Patrick paddled ahead, lifting his chest from the board to ride over a wave. He quickly flipped around and rode the next wave, this time gliding and returning to Pete. He did it a second time, and, sensing that his partner had been somewhat soothed, encouraged him to try the same. 

“See? You’re fine,” Patrick reiterated from earlier. Sitting on his board, Pete paddling in his direction, he could taste his heart on the edge of his tongue. He was nervous. “We’ll do a few more and then I’m going to stand. Are you good to stand if you watch me first?”

“Yeah, I should be.”

“Okay.”

When Patrick did stand, he had tricks to ensure it appeared easier than it truly was. He chose a shorter wave and kept his knees bent. He stood without issue, grinning until the ocean dropped him a ways past his starting point. His paddling brought him to another wave and he repeated the process.  


He motioned that he was done and waited.

Pete used the wave that came two cycles after Patrick’s. It seemed gentle. He focused his body, arms combing the water’s surface, head forward, and held a pause as the wave carried him on its crest. He swung his body into the standing position. A wobble upon having his feet flat on the board spooked him and he dropped, smacking his stomach on the board. It hurt, but he remained attached to the board and otherwise unharmed, the wave pushing him to Patrick. He scowled.

“Ugh,” he sputtered, salty droplets on the corner of his mouth. “I can do it, gimme a sec.”

“I know you can do it,” Patrick agreed. He went in for the last scrap of false encouragement he could give, a peck on Pete’s lips. It was, he fucking prayed, the silent goodbye he had been wanting to give for weeks now. He was desperate for this to end. He edged toward the shore to give him space, and to be poised for the escape.

Internally, he promised to feel no sympathy if this resulted in death.

Pete turned to face the waves. He actually paddled forward, hard, and over the first incoming one, trying to show that he was brave and chasing the latter. He was panting by the time he had positioned himself to stand. The wave reached its full height, he raised from his board, and--

Pete yelped, the sound muffled by the ocean when he fell headfirst. His chin knocked the edge of his board, and he was completely submerged in seconds. There wasn’t time to wonder what went wrong, to remember that he had previously been in this situation. He was shoved around, and was uncertain of the surface’s location. Soon, because he was attached by the leash at his ankle, he floated upward and got a hold of the board. He gasped and planted both hands firmly on the deck. A sweep of his surroundings showed him he was much farther out than he would have initially guessed, blue stretching to fill his vision at any angle. 

“Patrick! Patrick!”

His name was being called, he could hear it, and Patrick wished he had the chance to flip him off. He kept paddling. He wasn’t risking a lull in his exit for a petty middle finger. The shoreline was marred by his hurried footsteps within minutes, and he pricked his soles on the asphalt of the parking lot. He was leaving. He was doing the exact opposite of what he had been trained to do.

“PATRICK!”

Pete wasn’t drowning, not quite, although he was having a tough time keeping his mouth above the water. The swells didn’t care about his failed surfing efforts or his retreating partner. They kept coming, washing over his head and threatening to permanently pull him below. He howled that name he loved repeatedly, like an infatuated encore. No reply, and he couldn’t sense anyone swimming toward him. He was confused, panicking. 

He flapped his arms in hopes of assistance, assumed it would come from Patrick. He had no idea how alone he was, and wouldn’t fully grasp what had happened until he was rescued by a pair of lifeguards on duty. He was in tears, hating how he was being touched by these people. They would shush his cries for ‘Patrick, wh-where? Where is he? He’s mine,’ and usher him to first aid with mouthfuls of questions. They would get the answers they needed for their report, and Pete would never have his answer for why he was abandoned that day.

Hopping on the I-5 North, Patrick revved through the cars just fast enough to not get into an accident. His cell phone had been chucked out the window at the entrance ramp - he wasn’t going to be tracked by the software he would bet had been installed - and he felt no remorse for doing so. He could buy a new goddamn phone. He pressed on the accelerator and noticed the time on the car’s clock. It was half past three. He had promised his auntie he would be at her place for dinner. 

Oakland was six hour away from Los Angeles. He would apologize when he got there.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Whew! Sometimes I wish I had made Pete even crazier : 3


End file.
